


a green of our own making

by faorism



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Flower Crowns, Gift Giving, M/M, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 23:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: Bilbo will not be a coward in this.





	a green of our own making

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calciseptine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/gifts).



> indulgent flower crown drabble & drawing bday gift for [calciseptine](calciseptine.tumblr.com) who wrote like 50% of this fic in our tumblr chat but you know! partnering up is just what ya do, even for your own presents.

Bilbo was never good at weaving them, just as he was never good at tatting dollies and making embroidery stitches uniform. But like all young hobbits, he practiced in anticipation of making one for his future lover until his parents died, and the daydreams of romance faded. (But on his way to the Lonely Mountain, he starts to pluck seasonal flowers from their homes in the dirt, and fumbles through the old, half remembered motions.)

And then—after all has passed and Bilbo stays through winter, and he and Thorin slowly forgive one another—he sees some tough flowers growing along the side of the mountain. They're small. The stems are thin and weak. Bilbo mashes the poor things again and again, until he gets a crown that's passable. He considers bringing it to Thorin in his chambers, but he hesitates, unsure of his own presumption at broaching the privacy of a king's rooms with a gift.

He knows that should he wait any longer, the crown will wither, his efforts wasted to his own hesitation. But Bilbo is no fool nor is he a scared little doe like the most weak-hearted of his distant relatives.

Bilbo will not be a coward in this.

 

.

 

Thorin accompanies Bilbo without complaint to the wayward grotto, one Thorin himself has not seen before. A stream cuts the edge of the cave, and from a break in the ceiling, light spills, feeding the grotto's puffs of grass and ivy. It is easy to spend time here, but not convenient to find or trek to, which Bilbo must know Thorin has observed.

They sit on rocks by the bubbling water and speak of things with little consequence, until there is nothing more to say except why Bilbo brought Thorin to this place.

Between them settles a tension that is subdued but not unpleasant, heavy but not suffocating. Thorin watches as resolve brushes into his friend's steady brow as Bilbo moves to stand in front of him. Then, he makes room for Bilbo as the hobbit draws closer still until he stands between Thorin's spread knees.

The bubbling water of the stream roars in Thorin's ears as Bilbo produces his gift.

"I am not able to make a crown fit for a king," Bilbo admits, embarrassment hot in his cheeks. Then, more softly, "I never will."

Thorin is not quite sure what the crown means, but he can guess. He allows Bilbo to place it upon his head, weightless compared to the heavy iron that normally rests upon his brow, and takes Bilbo's hips in his hands so that the hobbit may not flee.

"And I shall never be worthy of your affection," Thorin declares. "So in this, as many other things, we are well matched."

Their kiss lingers.

 

.

 

 

.

 

So too does the thought of flower crowns linger in Thorin's mind.

It takes him many, many tries. So many times the company had to venture out and help him collect these delicate little things. He nearly gives up, furious as much at himself as he was at the stupid hobbits and their stupid customs and stupid flowers. But eventually, his coarse hands understand the threads of thick grass and roots and dethorned underbrush. He finds the twist of them like a rope or a syrupy string of melted gold links.

There's a delicacy Thorin knows he should have but cannot achieve, but the crown he builds is thick with his love and bold in a way no hobbit's crown has ever been. At its center, Thorin weaves an inelegant but functional basket. Its cradle holds a brilliant emerald, and in this stone rests the green of the hobbit fields, of the shade of a daisy stem, of the moss by the pond Thorin's blood first ran hot for Bilbo having seen Bilbo naked as he bathed.

This crown will last longer than most crowns, due to the harsh crops the company was only able to find. But it shall wither, eventually. But hobbit crowns live as a memory of the effort of love and a moment that will happen again, as the seasons come and go and so too shall the union blessed by the ring of flowers.

 

.

 

Bilbo sees this all in the crown Thorin gives him, but—oh—in that moment when Thorin fits the crown on his head, he is immediately thankful of having a dwarven love (well, he's always grateful, but even more so). Because when the crown crumbles with time, the emerald falls to his fist as solid and real as the bedrock of their love.

Bilbo knew Thorin loved him and he Thorin, but with this... this crown, this emerald, this holly strong love brightening Thorin's eyes as they draw on Bilbo's wonder... with this, Bilbo realizes then the permanence of their union.

He will love and be loved by Thorin, and they will forever do so for as long as this emerald shines green and theirs.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [fic and art post on tumblr posted here.](http://faorism.tumblr.com/post/170768663106)


End file.
